If you have to barter for love, it’s lust in disguise.
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Perpetually Deployed
Once again it’s time for The Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest. Yay! This time we are to create an acrostic poem using the name of a celebrity or favorite habit.
Kim’s ol’ butt:
As big as a barrel,
Round like a
Double-Stuffed Moon Pie
And wobbly as Jell-O.
Sort of like a
Humongous Air Bag.
If ever there were
An automobile accident she’d
Never feel a thing.
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Ode to Sweat
It’s time for the 43rd weekly Terrible Poetry Contest over at Chelsea Ann Owens’ Blog.
Writing cliché, mis-metered verse can be tricky; only those stuck in bad, beginner habits can truly pull it off. For a bit of guidance, read my basic outline. Ready? Excellent. Let’s begin.
Here are the specifics for this week:
- The Topic is free-versing about secondhand sales. Ever been to a yard sale? Garage sale? Flea market? Write about it; flow about it.
- Looking for a certain Length? Let’s go with fewer than 150 words. Final offer.
- Rhyming is not allowed. This is free verse poetry, people. Curb your instincts.
- Above all, make it terrible. e.e. cummings must feel such a shock from your literary efforts that he vows to capitalize his name just to make you stop.
- Let’s keep the rating PG or cleaner. What sort of flea market are you going to, anyway?
O, Saturday Tag Sale:
my Nirvana, my Shangri-la.
The anticipation makes me euphoric:
all that junk to riffle through,
not to mention smelly, worn clothing!
My God, it makes me hot.
So, so hot; ain’t nothin’ hotter
than when the sun beats down
on my bald spot
mercilessly, and then
the salty sweat gets in
my eyes, runs down
my neck and back
and finally trickles,
(oh so delicately!)
into my shorts.
The sensation makes me want to squeal.
But I don’t.
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A Broken Heart
Today at the dVerse Poets Pub, we are to write a poem about anticipation, waiting, or hoping.
Delicate snowflakes swirl
and sparkle in mid-day sun,
dusting her feathers a
diaphanous silver glaze.
among the frozen foliage
her mate finds her
and gently shields her with a
massive wing
puzzled as the snow
where she lie turns pink, then red
he huddles closer
and waits. He waits for
a heartbeat, a flinch
a breath, a sound —
any sign of life.
Still, he stays
and he waits with
a protective wing
over her lifeless body.
Never leaving
as the sun sets
and the snow keeps falling.
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Charming the Dragon
She convinced him he could charm the pants off a komodo dragon, and eventually Charlie believed her. Of course, as a seventeen-year-old runaway, Charlie had to believe in something and trust someone.
Too bad it had to be Miss Layla.
That was a good thirty years ago. Now, Layla was long gone and Charlie was still “in the business.”
It’s the only life he knew.Charlie had grown used to the fast money,the trips to Europe and jetting to private islands— and the champagne, caviar and nose candy that went along with it.
Although, now that he was forty-seven those trips to exotic destinations were few and far between.
So much for the days of wine and roses, he grimaced.These days, the money wasn’t as plentiful and the clientele weren’t as attractive. In fact, they were downright disgusting.
He was lucky to get a burger and soft drink for his time.
Charlie considered his reflection in the mirror: a middle-aged man with shaving cream all over his face
and vacant, milky-brown eyes.Charlie hadn’t felt an emotion in years. In order to succeed as a male escort, you had to stay numb, so he did.
Glancing at his watch, he realized he had ten minutes to get into character and literally charm the pants off the next komodo dragon.
Photo Courtesy of Vickie Fuchs Share this:
Ergo, the Ogre 